“The thought, motive and practice of Jungian psychology is that there is no sunlit meadow, no restful bower of easy sleep; there are rather swamplands of the soul where nature, our nature, intends that we live a good part of the journey, and from whence many of the most meaningful moments of our lives will derive. It is in the swamplands where soul is fashioned and forged, where we encounter not only the gravitas of life, but its purpose, its dignity and its deepest meaning.”-Robert L. Johnson, Ph.D., M.Div., L.M.H.C.

I do my best work here in the depth of the swamp. It is where the muck of life hangs on to every branch of my being, like the tangled beauty of Spanish moss, or kudzu; invasive and expanding until I cut it back, revealing a new layer of understanding and acceptance.It is also where I find the most meaning.  This meeting place where all my paths lead and yet, where they also begin.  It is as if the tangled mess gave way to the unraveling of enlightenment, all the while providing a layer of protection to what was beneath.  For years, I have been looking at the impact of shame on children and adolescents, not a formal study, more so an observation.  Those observations led me to look at shame as an epidemic that if never addressed grows into more layers of being incomplete.  In my wanderings I began looking at the work of Dr.Brene Brown (http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_listening_to_shame).  And just like that the swampland of my own soul began to clear.  Well, not really, just like that.  If it takes 20 years to be an overnight success, then I am indeed standing on the red carpet having arrived from the swamp. I am ready for my close up.    I mean heck, I have been damn good  at being damn good for a damn good long time.  I had grown quite fond of my swampland.  But no more.  I slowly started peeling back the kudzu of shame-so intricately wrapped around what was.  It was chocking the ever loving life out of my here and now.

I finally put the butchers daughter to rest.  It was time.

Weren’t expecting that were you?

I was not expecting her to go as easily as she did.  Oh hell, who am I kidding?  I damn near strangled to death-snipping back that last vine;feisty she was.  But I am mighty and I am used to going the distance. This thing that makes me who I am has been long fought and hard won.  It has been one heck of a ride and I would not trade it for anything-however, easy and simple do not go into any form of description that suits my journey best. It is finally time to balance out the long fought and hard won with the stillness of deep knowing and the forgiveness of accepting.

One Autumn night way back in 1978, I was at an oyster roast celebrating something or another.  Maybe even the fact it was Saturday night.  In southeastern North Carolina, if there is an “r” in the month-you can bet there are oysters to be schucked, roasted, steamed or eaten raw. Add a fire-pit, red solo cups containing one kind of beverage or another and you are in for what makes a memory.  I was in high school at the time,not quite yet old enough to drive but oh so close.  I was a cheerleader and involved in all the things we all did back in high school, way back then.  At some point,I caught a glimpse of an image walking towards me. It was not anyone I recognized from my group of high school friends, and it was clear the image moving towards me was on a mission and I was the target. She was tall, and her blonde, spiral permed hair was all over the place.  She was wearing an acid washed jean jacket and carrying a red solo cup.  I can still remember the way the air smelled as she approached me.  I did not know enough to anticipate what was about to happen, but I knew enough to know this was not going to be good.  She was smiling as if she knew me, and as we southern gals tend to do, I smiled back as if I knew her, though I did not.  Not even a little.

Hey, she said.  I know you. And then, a very strange pause.  I knooow you.  She was smiling.

You’re the butchers daughter.

She said this with such a genuine ease of assurance and yet, I could not comprehend what she was saying. She was mistaken.

I’m sorry, I said.  Who?

Yoooooooooou.  She said poking me in the chest.  Yeah, that’s you.  You’re the butchers daughter.

And with that, the entire contents of her cup was thrown at me and I was drenched in the smell of beer and rage.   A punch was thrown. And then a blur of blonde hair flying. People were holding her back and other people were pulling me to safety. I was soaking wet, my face stung from the punch and I still could not understand the depth of what had just happened.  I was taken home by two friends and the whole story unfolded in front of my parents. I showered and went to bed.  Stung. Hurt. Confused.

Within a week, we knew who she was and why I was the target of her rage. Her twisted layer of pain and shame was revealed. And it was then I began to  understand shame, hypocrisy and the human condition.  It was also then I took the first step into my own swampland of my soul and dug in deep.  As it turns out, this young woman had gotten pregnant by a family member.  The family member was a local pastor.  The pastor wanted the problem fixed and a week prior to the party, the pastor had knocked on the back door of my fathers clinic to make an appointment to be absolved and solve the problem. This was also the very same pastor who led pro-life pickets in the parking lot of my father’s clinic and without fail, never missed a Christmas Eve vigil in front of our house, yelling horrific things in the name of God. And while that pastor was looking for his own salvation, my sense of who I was took a very strange turn that night and continued on a path of perfection, absolution  and some kind of my own salvation for years and years to come.  Mind you, I have never had or have an issue with abortion.  I have long been pro-choice. I was not ashamed of who I was.  However, on that Autumn night, way back then, I began an apprenticeship in being all I could be to make up for…well, being labeled the butchers daughter.

In 2002,soon after I moved to New England, I was offered a directing job for a local community theater.  Rehearsals had been going well and I was in the process of pulling together the show which included a cast of adults and children. A call came in from the program coordinator alerting me to a delay in the next rehearsal to accommodate the annual walk around the commons. Something, she said, the children look forward to every year.  The next morning I arrived early to observe the walk.  A parade of sorts I was thinking?  But no.  Some of the very children who would be later attending rehearsal were walking around the commons, following a golf card carrying  a statue of Mother Mary on a bale of hay.  The children had pictures of dead fetuses hanging from their necks. This was no parade at all. It was a walk of shame.  Whose shame was riding on the backs of those children?

My own layers of shame took on many forms over the years.  Over extending myself, losing my own voice to be the voice of others, doing more than humanly possible, braver than most, chasing success, chasing relationships, chasing away the label. Working so hard and clinging to more and more vines.  Figuring out who I was  underneath all the layers of who I was not has not been without it’s days and nights of sobbing, loss, regrets-and yet I am more solid on this ground of hard earth than I ever was in the muck of the swamp. I don’t have to bob and weave the truths, I no longer have to hide or prove or press on.  I take comfort in sitting in the place that is the balanced land, the wisdom, and the here, the meeting place of my own salvation to myself.